Field hospital, southern rear sector — October 2, 1941
The wind rattled the canvas of the makeshift hospital, heavy with the stench of disinfectant, cheap alcohol, and fresh death. Inside, the murmurs were low, as if suffering should not disturb those already at peace.
On one of the cots, torso bandaged and breathing with effort, lay Lukas Engel. His eyes were open. In front of him stood his crew.
Falk approached first. From beneath the soot-stained folds of his jacket, he pulled out a scorched and bent fragment of the Panzer's steering lever.
"Not much was left. But this…" he held out the piece, "this matters."
Lukas took it with trembling fingers, turning it slowly in his hand. He didn't cry, but the quiver in his jaw said more than tears could.
Konrad, his arm in a sling and voice still hoarse from the shrapnel, eased into a nearby chair.
"I thought you were the one visiting me, not the other way around," he said, and for the first time in days, he smiled.
Helmut placed a metal thermos on a small wooden crate.
"Hospital coffee. Or something pretending to be."
"If that's coffee, I'm the new Reichsführer," Konrad muttered.
Ernst walked in behind them, placing a torn blue-and-yellow flag on the bedside.
"It's a gift. Well… kind of. Ripped it down from the top of city hall. Thought you'd want to know we made it. That we raised them."
Lukas stared at it for a long moment.
"So... we did it?"
"We did," Falk confirmed. "And you were with us."
**
For a while, they didn't say much. Just gestures, scattered jokes, knowing glances. As if simply being alive was enough. As if every breath was a victory.
With a weak voice, Lukas said:
"When we're back at the front… make sure I'm driving again. Even if it's just a tractor."
"That won't be necessary," said a deeper voice behind them.
**
It was SS-Hauptsturmführer Albrecht, as impeccable as ever, though his eyes bore the hollowness of little sleep. He carried a leather folder and looked directly at Falk.
"Can I speak with you outside?"
Falk nodded and followed him out.
**
Outside the hospital, minutes later
Night had fallen over the camp, but the moon was bright enough to see the lines of wear carved into every face. Albrecht lit a cigarette and handed Falk the folder.
"Orders from High Command. You're going to France."
Falk raised an eyebrow.
"France?"
"Reorganization zone. A new Panzer IV model is being deployed. Long-barreled gun. Reinforced frontal armor. Guderian and Speer fast-tracked the project after your frontline reports. Yours will be among the first."
Falk didn't reply right away. The weight of the words took time to settle.
"And my crew?"
"All of you are going. As soon as they're ready. Lukas has medical priority. He'll be fit in a few weeks, according to the report. Konrad too. Helmut was offered a post in Signals. He turned it down. Said his frequency was with you."
Falk let out a brief, incredulous laugh.
"And you?"
"I'm staying. The offensive continues. But we'll meet again. And when we do, we'll be clearing the road to Moscow with fire and steel."
**
Falk looked back at the hospital. Inside, his men were laughing. Or at least trying to. The five of them. Like always.
"Thank you, Hauptsturmführer."
Albrecht looked at him, solemn.
"Thank you. For not breaking. For still thinking. For not turning to stone like so many others."
They shook hands like soldiers. But let go like men.
**
That night, Falk returned to the tent with steady steps. It wasn't the war that kept him standing.
It was knowing that, against all odds, his crew still breathed.And soon, they would roll again.